When I Am Queen
by MochaCocaFan
Summary: When I am Queen I will exist with perfect scars upon my wrist...--Second-best isn't good for self-esteem, and it certainly isn't good for sanity. And yet every Queen must have their advisor...--


_Dear Mello,_

_I want to be your best friend_

_I'll never shut you up, I'll never tell a lie_

_I'll never leave you in the dust, I'll never make you cry_

_I'll help you whenever you need, I'll actually listen when you talk_

_I'll scorn those spiteful idiots, I'll laugh at them and mock_

_I know you're a bit nervous, just give me a try_

_A life with me is totally free, you'll never want to die_

_Even if you're not needing all the time I'll just sit by and wait_

_Bleeding is breathing and patience is a trait_

_Love,_

_Razor_

"What're you writing, Mello?" asked the curious, whimsical voice of Near. The boy looked up, burning hatred in his eyes, and crumpled the paper up, blood aflame with loathing for the too-calm boy in front of him. Sneering, he replied in the rudest and nastiest way his depressed mind could think of.

"None of your fucking business, shithead."

* * *

After the fifteenth time he choked the albino moron into unconsciousness, they sent him to therapy. Though he never answered the inkblot questions properly, or at all, he always remembered his bitter, hatred-laden responses inside his seething mind.

"Love."

_Retarded._

"Peace."

_Bullshit._

"Home."

_Ashes._

"Happiness."

_Delusion._

"Hope."

_Hippies._

"Friendship."

_Matt._

He blinked and spent the better part of a month wondering why the _hell_ that came to mind. Matt wasn't a friend. He didn't have friends. Friends were weaknesses. Friends were something nobody worthy needed. So why did he keep Matt around?

The question went unanswered for months.

* * *

He was sick. Sick of life, sick of pain, sick of Near, sick of being imperfect. He stormed into the bathroom and swiped up the razor, and without thinking, slashed at his left elbow. Mello stared in morbid fascination at the sheer amount of blood that oozed organically from the cuts. He remembered vividly the occasions Near had gotten scrapes, and he cried even though they barely bled (until he was five, but Mello didn't care by then). Triumph sang in his veins. He was better at something. Smirking, he reached for the razor again.

* * *

_Dear Razor,_

_I love you, I want you, I need you I do_

_You never laugh behind my back, you always stay true_

_You allow me to concentrate and sleep and smile_

_You vanish my sinful nausea, my sickening bile_

_You've always kept your promise, you always give me what I need_

_Though other people talk back, they can't make me bleed_

_Love,_

_Mello_

Mello read over the poem. His creativity had definitely improved. He smirked and stood up.

He didn't notice Near frowning over the bloodstain in his book.

* * *

It became a habit, an odd one, but a habit nonetheless. The pain, the blood, the sharpness- not even the finest, creamiest organic rich Belgian chocolate could possibly hold a candle to it all. Each scar was more satisfying than Mello thought possible. It was strange, but sometimes when he just _saw_ Near he'd flick up his sleeve and glance at the scar, the scalding image burnt into his mind providing a sweet escape from the reality of being second-best forever.

* * *

It was only one scar, one little white line on his wrist, one he opened every night, sighing in satisfaction at the blood. He didn't need more. Near didn't have any scars, he knew. But this didn't bother Mello. It was just one pretty perfect white line. Just one.

* * *

On the rare occasions where Rodger was off bothering someone else or the attic was free, Mello took the opportunity to go a bit further than just some cuts with a razor. Knives, safety pins, scissors, compasses, pencils, bits of a smashed CD, pencil sharpeners, switchblades, fingernails, teeth, broken glass, nail clippers, tweezers, even sharp-edged dice worked. Of course, he has tried burning too. It created a very different rush, and an incomparable one against blood and sharpness.

Still, it was a contigency plan.

* * *

The night Matt found him, he simply held Mello's gaze for a moment, and quietly shut the door.

Who was he to judge?

* * *

Every time L was going to come over, Mello would feel such stress and anxiety and excitement mixed that he would positively shred his stomach in worry. Matt would bandage it up, make sure it was hidden, and very silently hate L with the loathing passion of a thousand white-hot suns.

Mello never caught on.

* * *

Near tried so hard to figure it out. Why there was blood in the books. Why Mello suddenly seemed so giddily happy when before he was the embodiment of depression. Why Matt would occasionaly give L looks that contained more murderous hatred than was possible for most of humanity.

It took him months before he realized he could never figure it out. When he was in his freezing, icy grave he still hadn't.

* * *

Mello barely noticed, but he didn't cut after he and Matt admitted that their relationship was something more and first kissed. He was so deliriously happy he never picked up the razor again and the scars faded save the first.

It never went away.

* * *

Matt stopped hating himself for being weak after Mello stopped cutting. When he gazed upon the first scar that never went away, he stopped feeling animosity.

Instead he felt it attraction.

* * *

Lying in the flaming rubble of the building, Mello mused it was ironic that he'd have a scar right across his face. It would be the first scar he didn't want to create.

It never went away either.

* * *

When Matt was killed and Mello was dead, Near had little idea what had happened. He racked his brain for hours and hours but noting at all came up. The only thing he could comprehend was the overwhelming grief and pressure and sadness and hate bundled together into a ball of humanity he never was able to quite work past. The two had finally succeeded in making him feel human, but it was the hollowest victory yet.

* * *


End file.
